Aiden was already out of the cell.
Not free, not yet—freedom was an illusion, one that could vanish the moment a guard's torchlight swung too far or a whisper reached the Earl's ears.
But his feet were on stone, his armor was upon him, and his chains lay forgotten in the straw behind him. That was enough.
The weight of steel pressed against his shoulders, comforting and suffocating all at once. His cuirass was dented, its edges rough from battle and neglect, the sigil scraped clean.
A blank knight now, faceless in borrowed iron. His visor was down, his gait even—one soldier among many, a shadow swallowed by the fortress.
The old games of hide and seek.
He had been good at those. Too good.
And yet beneath the armor, beneath the calm, he was trembling. Not with fear—but with the raw memory of touch.
He could still smell her.
Akidna.